


Afterglow

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Because they couldn't make it to the bed, Clueless John, Dinner, EXPLICIT HANDHOLDING, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Floor Sex, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frotting, Humor, Just cute and innocent toe touching I promise, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Not foot porn tho, Or even the sofa, Pining, Pining John, Rimming, Seriously Sherlock is DTF and John is an idiot, Sexual Tension, There will also be sex, Thunderstruck and Lovestruck, flirtatious Sherlock, i am emo, playful banter, soft bois, wrist porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28807848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: And if the candle sets the place on fire, I'll continue to kiss you as the walls burn down around us.***Now complete!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 114
Kudos: 248





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnlockhedgehog149](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockhedgehog149/gifts).



> “I won’t be silent and I won’t let go // I will hold on tighter 'til the afterglow.” - Ed Sheeran

The very first time John and Sherlock exchange kisses and love confessions, they’re in the alleyway after a candle-lit dinner. 

There _must_ be a candle at dinner, Angelo insists. It's more _romantic_ that way, Angelo insists. 

John used to insist against it, because he and Sherlock are not a couple, but he gave up insisting after the third or fourth time. Angelo is the more insistent insistor—and besides, it's generally not advisable to argue with the person handling your food.

But when John and Sherlock are having dinner, the sun begins to set over the Thames. And the candle's flame always casts golden waves across Sherlock's skin, and John always looks. It's one of his favourite parts about dinner with Sherlock: that he's allowed to look for as long as he likes without finding a reason.

Tucked away in their usual corner, their time at Angelo's provides the two of them their most intimate moments. Never a lull in conversation, no frenzied house guests competing for their attention. Sherlock looking at him from across the table with fondness, as though he's the only other person in the restaurant—or maybe even the world.

The candle's not so bad.

John knows he and Sherlock aren't a couple, of course. But sometimes, over the candle's flame, he imagines that they are. When Sherlock looks at him that way—what choice has he got?

Yes, sometimes, John thinks that being a couple would suit them quite well. The two of them in their dimly lit corner of the restaurant, just as they always are—but with their conversations interrupted by furtive kisses; their eyes locked in not only fondness, but desire.

It's a seed that became sowed in John's head long ago, perhaps that fateful evening one January, when they first stepped into the restaurant. And by the time he realised the seed had even been planted, it had already grown and sprouted several more seeds, which in turn became a labyrinth of lush green trees and weeds and twisty-turny vines. 

John wouldn't be the first to say any of this, of course. And Sherlock wouldn't be the first to know it. So John continues to imagine what it would be like, wandering the labyrinth and plucking flowers wherever he may find them. 

***

On an evening during a more recent January, Angelo brings John and Sherlock a bottle of merlot compliments of the house. 

"Happy New Year," he says cheerfully. "...and many blessings to come for the beautiful couple." He winks at John so blatantly that John almost _hears_ it. "A wedding, perhaps?"

John responds by choking on absolutely nothing and then coughing for a moment or two. His eyes flit to Sherlock, who sits with his arms across his chest and a smug smile on his face.

"Yes, John. A wedding, perhaps?" he echoes in jest. 

John chokes again and attempts to mumble a thank you. Sherlock sends Angelo off to get a glass of water. As he goes to retrieve it, Sherlock bursts into a fit of laughter.

"I will never tire of the way you react to that," he teases.

"Every time!" John moans. "You just sit there and provoke him, every single time!" 

Sherlock leans back in his chair. "Yes. And...?" 

"And you could maybe...stop doing that?”

"And rob myself of the opportunity to see the look on your face? That would be absurd." 

"Keep it up, Holmes, and I will throw this glass of wine at you," John threatens. 

"Oh, John. You would never waste such fine wine." 

"No?" John immediately wraps his fingers around the stem of his glass.

Sherlock throws his hands up to cover his face. 

It's John's turn to dissolve into laughter. "Calm down. I was just going to propose a toast." 

Sherlock peeks out, slowly lowering his hands. "Alright," he says with caution, taking his own glass from the table. "Cheers. To what are we toasting?"

“Oh.” John presses his lips together. "I actually didn't think that far. I really was just trying to mess with you." 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "To—”

“Yes, to—”

"To the bespectacled woman at the patisserie!" 

John frowns. "What? Why?" 

"I left my favourite scarf there this morning and she chased after me to return it." 

"Mmhmm." John rests his elbow on the table and his head in his hand. "Good thing she did that. You’ve only got a dozen more, all completely identical." 

"My _favourite_ scarf, John!" Sherlock pouts. 

John stares. Sherlock is somehow very charming when he pouts. The way his eyes become wide, his forehead crinkles, and his lips form into a perfect heart shape. It's rather nice. 

"Alright, then." John clinks the rim of his glass to Sherlock's. "To the woman at the patisserie—whose name is Michelle, by the way—and to your favourite scarf." 

"Ugh. _Michelle_ ," Sherlock repeats in a mocking tone. "I'm sure the two of you are _quite_ close." 

There it is again—the pout. John is, of course, going to hang on to this moment for as long as he can. "Sherlock. Are you worried that someone might take my attention away from you?"

Sherlock huffs. "No." He huffs again. "No. No." 

_Pout. Pout. Pout._

"It's not what you think," John reassures him. "I'm simply being polite. It doesn't take much effort to be friendly. Or to read a name badge, for that matter." 

"Being polite is certainly an effort," Sherlock states. "Too much of an effort. Being disliked by everyone is far easier." 

John quickly contradicts him. "You aren't disliked by everyone. You are very loved, in fact." 

That last part was something he didn't actually intend to say out loud. Because if he knows Sherlock—and he does—he will now have to provide evidence to support his claim. 

"Loved, am I?" Sherlock sips his wine, intrigued. "Loved by whom?"

"Lots of people!" 

"Such as?"

John racks his brain. A bead of sweat forms at his brow. He suddenly does not know a single word, nor does he know a single person. "Like Martha!"

"Sorry. Who?"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Sherlock's expression grows more and more bewildered, and John does not blame him one bit. "Since when do you call her that?"

_Since never._ "Since always!" John's nerves are causing his brain to go completely haywire, and his mouth is not far behind.

"Why on Earth would you call her _Martha_?"

"Because that's her name!" God, he needs more wine. “But my point is—“

”Yes, please quickly arrive at the point.”

"—My point is that she is someone who cares about you." 

"Alright. I won't deny that she cares about me. She is, however, annoyed by my 'questionable pastimes.' I'm surprised she hasn't evicted me by now." 

"She would never throw you out,” John says. She'd better not, anyhow. John would throw himself out right along with him, and that's a lot of throwing. 

Sherlock shrugs and takes another sip. He seems bored by the topic all of a sudden. "This wine is very good. Château Pape Clément, I believe."

"What was that?" John heard him fine. He just wants to hear him say it again in that deep, sexy French accent.

"Château Pape Clément."

"Oh.” John squirms in his seat. “Is it, erm...expensive?" He drinks wine often, but knows very little about it. Sherlock rarely drinks, but possesses a fair amount of knowledge of ethanol and fermentation. 

"Not really. Three hundred pounds a bottle, perhaps." 

John’s mouth drops open. Sometimes he forgets how much money Sherlock actually has. "Only three hundred, hmm? Well, in that case, perhaps you should order two or three more," he teases.

“Hm. Good idea.” Sherlock obviously misses the joke entirely. But it’s fine—because he leans towards John with enthusiasm, and when he does, their knees become gently pressed together beneath the table. 

John is thankful for knees.

"Perhaps we should finish this bottle first," Sherlock continues. "And after that… we will see where the night takes us." And then, his toes faintly brush against John's, and John is thankful for toes, as well. Not in a kinky way. Just in a _"Sherlock is playing footsie with me oh god oh god"_ way.

John actually fears he may become overheated and melt into a puddle from Sherlock’s simple, barely-there touch. But Sherlock, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice how awkward he has become. Even better— he doesn’t pull away. Neither of them do. And although John is hot, hot, hot—he is frozen in place, and couldn’t move away if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to.

Sherlock takes another drink or two as they sit in thoughtful silence. "You know what, John?” 

_(Foot graze.)_

John manages to gurgle some form of acknowledgement.

“It may seem somewhat foolish...and I realise that even as I’m saying it. But there is something extraordinary about the time we spend together here at the restaurant." 

“Not at all!" John blurts out. Apparently, he still knows a couple of words. He takes another drink of wine, hoping it may lubricate his vocal chords. 

"It feels almost as though we're in a different universe,” Sherlock continues pensively. “...hidden away from the annoyances of daily life. As though you and I are different people altogether—and yet more _us_ than we would ever allow ourselves otherwise." 

"Yes! Yes, exactly." _(Another brush of the knees.)_ "I like it, too." 

After that, Sherlock says nothing more on the topic. He simply gazes openly at him, as though he’s waiting for him to say something profound.

But he doesn’t. Instead, his mind creeps backwards towards something Sherlock said earlier. 

_“We will see where the night takes us.”_

John’s imagination ventures unbidden to where the night might take them, and it takes them to _very_ good places. To the taste of Sherlock's lips paired with the taste of Château Pape Clément. To the way his cold, graceful fingers might feel as they slip beneath the hem of John's shirt and up his spine. To the crumpling noise Sherlock's pristine shirt might make as he tosses it carelessly onto the floor. To the luxurious sensation of Sherlock's silk sheets on John’s back. 

"John.”

John shakes his head vigorously to pull himself back to reality. "Yes?”

_(Unmistakeable, lingering toe graze.)_

"You said a moment ago that a lot of people love me. Mrs. Hudson, for instance.”

“Right.”

“Do you suppose Mrs. Hudson is the only one?"

"Oh. No, I don't suppose she is." 

Sherlock tilts his head inquisitively. "Who else loves me, John?"

_Me. Me! I love you. And I very much want to leap over this table, knock the candle to the floor, take you by the lapels and kiss the hell out of you. And if the candle sets the place on fire, I'll continue to kiss you as the walls burn down around us._

...is what he would like to say. But he actually says:

"Molly loves you!" 

"She does?" Sherlock seems genuinely shocked. "Then why do I seem to provoke such intense anxiety when I'm around her?"

“She considers you a good friend.” _A_ _good friend who she is also in love with._ “She’s simply shy. Perhaps she’s intimidated by your…” _Beauty._ “...cleverness. In any case, she’s quite fond of you.”

Sherlock bobs his head, eyes going a bit blank as he appears to reflect on his and Molly’s interactions. "Alright." He looks back at John. "Anyone else?”

“Your parents, of course.”

"Boring. They don't count." 

"I'm sure your mother would be pleased to hear that." 

Sherlock rests his head in his hands. "Who else?"

_This could go on all night. Just tell him you love him and get it over with so you can burn down the restaurant._

"...Mycroft?" 

"Ha!" 

"Stamford." 

"Simply an acquaintance." 

"Lestrade." 

"Who?"

"Nevermind. Michelle?" 

“Again, I ask: who?”

"Michelle! The woman at the patisserie." 

"Oh. No, I don’t think so. She is appropriately fond of my scarf.”

“If she was simply fond of your scarf, why wouldn’t she have kept it?”

Sherlock’s mouth slowly turns upwards. "You never concede in an argument, do you?"

"Do _you?"_

"Fair point, I suppose."

And by the grace of everything holy and unholy, their conversation moves in another direction. They return to their drinks and laughs and fond glances, enjoying one another's company, as usual. But this time, it’s with knees and toes touching.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showing how you feel is often easy. But the feelings don't gain life until you give them a name. And no matter how much you may regret what comes of that, there is no way of shoving those words back into your mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELLLLL this story was supposed to be two chapters total... but unlike John, I seem to have too MANY words. Besides, I wanted to post on their anniversary. So here...have an extra update!
> 
> Happy Johnlock day!

Dinner doesn't end once their plates are cleared, nor once their bottle of wine is emptied. Sherlock calls the waitress to order a second bottle, and John flushes with the exhilarating knowledge that the night is headed down a path that pleases them both.

They pour drinks across the table for each other—just one of the many signs of endearment that continue to occur this evening.

This, however, is not half as endearing as what follows. Because once their hands return to the tabletop, their fingers become drawn together, bit by bit—as if Sherlock's hands were the sun and John's were the moon. It’s not long before Sherlock’s palm slips over John’s, his fingers lightly settled on the pulse point of his wrist. 

It makes sense, John thinks. Their limbs have become pleasantly bosom beneath the table, so he supposes this is a logical progression of body to body contact. And assuming neither of them have additional limbs, he can only imagine what might ensue. 

Nevertheless, his heart rate escalates with every second of this pornographic wrist touching, and with Sherlock's fingertips at his pulse, he must remind himself to be careful. If Sherlock only knew what was going on with John’s brain and his wrists and his knees and everything in between... well. John doesn't want him to know. John doesn’t know, for that matter. 

Attempting to regain composure, he settles in to something he greatly enjoys: listening to Sherlock talk. And talk. And talk. Few people know how endlessly Sherlock rambles when he’s excited, and _especially_ when he's tipsy. He’ll go on about one topic until you’re sure there’s nothing left to say—and somehow, he’s able to drag out many false finales before the end. 

But tonight, as nervous as he is, he's thankful for Sherlock’s gift of gab. And he’s even more thankful when Sherlock gently retracts his fingers from his wrist and weaves them between his.

John gapes down at the sight of their fingers intertwined, his eyes comically wide. Sherlock pretends not to notice. Instead, he begins telling the story of his first serial murderer case as if he never has. He has. John’s listened to it no less than a dozen times. But this is the first time to hear it while Sherlock’s touching him. This version of the story is much better.

As he smiles and nods along, his aimless gaze inevitably hones in on Sherlock’s beautiful lips. Oh, those lips. They will be the death of him. Those criminal, savage, murderous lips. They ought to be locked up, really. By John's lips, perhaps.

At half past eleven, the candle burns out, symbolising that the night has come to an end. 

John spent the greater part of the evening foolishly hoping that somehow, it might keep burning and burning—on this, the most perfect of nights. Hoped that Sherlock might never let go of his hand, that they might never let go of this intimacy. That they might never exchange the fantasy for the impersonal normalcy of the real world.   
  
But will normalcy even be possible after tonight? After their sweet words, and the even sweeter touching of fingertips? 

As John ponders this, he notices that Sherlock has fallen silent for the first time in hours. His light blue eyes shift to their joined fingers.

John can feel it: he and Sherlock share the same urge to leave, but they also share the same—stronger—urge to linger. 

The night is not over yet. And there’s so much John could say in the time they’ve got. So much he _wants_ to say. That Sherlock’s the most treasured person in his life; and far more treasured than any person in his past. That he's never known anyone kinder or wiser.

He wants to ask Sherlock whether he knows he's saved his life in every possible way. Wants to ask how it's even possible that every moment they're together—whether on an adventure or sitting in complete silence—is more electrifying than any crime they could solve. More gratifying than curing any ailment. More poignant than fighting on any battlefield.

He wants to ask Sherlock if he knows how loved he is. Because although his life may have been filled with people telling him differently, those people know nothing about him. If they knew him like John does, they would love him too. 

John’s head and heart and limbs and every organ in his body work in unison, begging him to say the words. Sherlock watches him, as well—expression gentle and fierce at once. He's got a way of doing that; of peering through your skin and bones and seeing right into your soul. 

"I—” John begins. But the words dissolve on his tongue. 

Sherlock smiles subtly. "I suppose we ought to head out.” He unwraps his fingers from John’s, parting their knees and toes.

John has to dig his fingernails into the tablecloth to keep from pulling them back.

“If you'll excuse me for a moment,” Sherlock says, “I'm going find Angelo and thank him. I'll meet you outside, alright?" 

"Alright.” John smiles back before Sherlock turns to go. Once he’s gone, John swears beneath his breath and plants his face into the table.

After a few self-pitying moments, he lifts his head and glares daggers into the candle before him.   
  
"This is all _your_ fault, you know!" he hisses. Suddenly impassioned, he swipes the candle off the table, watching as it rolls noncommittally onto the floor. 

***

The air in the alleyway behind the restaurant is heavy, still, and silent. Too silent. John’s got nothing to distract him from the flitting of "should haves" and "why didn't yous" in his brain. 

Why must it be so difficult to tell Sherlock how he feels? He's certain it's not a secret any longer. Not after the googly eyes and the squished together body parts. Not after the spike in his resting pulse rate and the mass exodus of his vocabulary. 

Showing how you feel is often easy. But the feelings don't gain life until you give them a name. And no matter how much you may regret what comes of that, there is no way of shoving those words back into your mouth. 

He's got so much to lose. What he has with Sherlock is singular and worth keeping. He would give it up for nothing. Well, not _nothing._ He’d be quite willing to give up this model for an upgraded model where they get to kiss.   
  
There is no question about it. John is in love with Sherlock. Nothing else could possibly turn him into this paralysed, babbling mess. Short of acute psychosis, anyway. Sherlock would likely argue that love _is_ a form of acute psychosis. And he's probably correct. 

A breeze passes. John hears Sherlock’s footsteps behind him—he would recognise the sound of them anywhere. 

“You left this at the table.” A hand rests lightly on John’s shoulder. 

John spins around to find Sherlock standing inches away, looking down at him, holding John’s scarf in his hands.

John groans with embarrassment. “Thank you. I suppose I gave you a good opportunity to pay it forward.”

“Well.” Sherlock brings the scarf to John’s coat collar, circling it around his shoulders with a grin. “I’ve got no interest in keeping it. I wonder what that says about me?”

A surge of warmth swells in John’s chest as he catches on. “It either means you’re fond of me...or you’re simply being polite.”

Sherlock carefully ties the scarf into a knot. Once he’s finished, his eyes raise to John’s. “When have I ever been simply polite?”

They may no longer be in their perfect little corner—but here Sherlock is, standing in front of John, waiting for him to say how he feels. 

John opens his mouth to speak.

Sherlock listens. 

The wind stirs. A car horn blares. A dog barks in the distance. 

A clap of thunder rips through the sky, and freezing rain cascades from the clouds onto their heads.

Sherlock’s hands fly up to cover his ears. “What on Earth was that?!” he yells. 

“Thunder!” John calls back. 

“Obviously!” Sherlock cries out. “What I meant was... why is there thunder in January?”

“What?” John can barely hear him over the pelting rain and low rumblings.

“Johnnnn!” Sherlock whines, drenched and helpless. “Do something! I beg of you!”

He may be a genius, but adapting to novel situations isn’t exactly Sherlock’s strong suit. That’s where John usually comes in. He scans the area rapidly for a place to take cover. Spotting an awning tucked back into another alleyway, he turns to Sherlock and holds out his hand. “Follow me!” he says.

Sherlock takes it with no hesitation, gripping on to John tightly.

Hand in hand, beneath the blistering rain, the two of them make a run for it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I mean, boo! London and its January thunderstorms! Deus ex machina?! Not here!
> 
> I promise love confessions and smut in the next (and final! Really!) chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk about everything and nothing until the sun comes up. Sherlock refuses to sleep, he says, because he doesn’t want this perfect day to end. John kisses him on the shoulder and promises that tomorrow will be even better.

The rain is rather unpleasant.

Sherlock's hand in John’s is not. It's very, very pleasant, in fact. It fits as if it were tailor made for John's hand alone: effortless. Instinctual. Amazing, fantastic, brilliant. 

Although inconvenient it may be—as the two men dash down the alleyway, buzzed from the wine and the irony, the rain seems to wash away all of John’s fears.

They reach the awning. John tries to catch his breath. It's much smaller than he expected; at arm's length, it barely covers them both. 

"We made it," he pants.

"Indeed." Sherlock pushes a few wet curls back from his forehead, his gaze luminous, even in the darkness. He shivers, and John notices that he's still standing partially in the rain.

"Sherlock," he admonishes. "What are you doing? You're getting cold and wet." 

"Mmm. Yes." Sherlock rubs his hands together to create heat. "Could it possibly be due to the fact that it's cold and wet where I'm standing?"

"Come here." John takes him by the shoulders. "Let me help you." And without hesitation, he draws Sherlock's body into his own.

As natural as it felt for Sherlock to slide his hand into his—this action feels ten times more so. John, wrapping Sherlock into a protective embrace; Sherlock yielding, sliding his hands beneath John's coat to circle his arms around his waist.

"Oh. You're right." Sherlock bows his head forwards to rest his cold cheek against John's. "This is much better. Thank you." 

"No need to thank me." Holding Sherlock closer, John closes his eyes and presses their cheeks together. Sherlock's skin is as smooth as ivory, and he smells like merlot and the rain.

"Sherlock," he says with a sigh of satisfaction.

"John," Sherlock exhales.

For a few moments, they silently cling to one another, swaying to the music of the storm. Sherlock's presence makes everything beautiful. The rain becomes tranquil. The wind becomes invigorating; the air thick and sweet like honey.

John sets a soft kiss onto Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock's breath hitches, and he audibly swallows—but he tilts his head, offering the rest of his neck in invitation.

John places another kiss there. And another. And another. Brings his lips to the shell of Sherlock's ear. Releases a warm exhalation that causes Sherlock to shiver.

"Getting to hold you close like this," John whispers, "—is the most incredible feeling in the world. To be with you here and now, in our temporary safe space, while the skies collapse around us. Experiencing the sound of your breath, the scent of your aftershave, the sensation of your cool skin against mine. It all makes me happier than I ever thought possible." 

Sherlock releases a gust of air, part laughter, part contentedness. He turns his head, burying his face into John's shoulder. 

John kisses the damp curls where his hairline meets his neck. "You are my forever safe space, Sherlock,” he continues. "You are radiant in every sense of the word, and I'm the luckiest man in the world to be caught in your afterglow." 

"John," Sherlock says firmly, but there's no anger in his voice. "Just say you love me already. Please."

John chuckles. He kisses Sherlock's shoulder. "I love you," he murmurs. "I love you. I love you for your grace, and your wit, and your kindness. I love you for the way that you laugh, and for the way I laugh when I'm with you. I love that you always say my name like you need me. I love the passion you bring to all you do, and how it burns, even when everything around you has faded. And I love that you came into my life at exactly the right time, as if somehow you already knew how important it would be."

Sherlock holds to John tighter. Kisses his cheek and his jaw. Presses his lips to his wet skin between claps of thunder.

"Is it my turn?" he asks. "I've got a few things I’d like to say as well."

"Yes, of course." 

He takes in a deep breath. "John. I look at you as you carry out the most mundane tasks imaginable—reading the paper, watching television, washing dishes—and I think to myself that you are the most fascinating person I’ve ever known. And that I couldn’t love you more, but with that, you always prove me wrong. You are everything to me. My best friend. My partner. My hero. The reasons to love you are infinite, as is my love. And I'd like to remind you of that tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. And every day that follows until I can no longer speak." 

"Fucking hell." John's voice is raw from emotion. "You've gone and left me speechless again." 

"You make it very easy. All it takes is a slight brush of the knees." 

John bursts into laughter, and just as suddenly as the storm began, it comes to an end. They pull away from each other, their eyes as wide as their smiles.

"Sherlock." 

"Hmm?"

"Listen to me carefully. We are going to make another run for it and hop into the first cab we can find. Because once we're home, I would like to take you to bed—and I've already waited a long damned time." 

Sherlock nods and takes his hand. "I'll follow you. Always."

John beams. "Same." He pauses. "Only not right now, because you're going to follow me. We were speaking in terms of figurative following, like in a romantic way, right?"

_"John."_

"Yes. You're right. Sorry. Let's go." 

The two of them hightail it from the alleyway hand in hand, just as they did before—only this time, rather than being propelled by the rain, they’re spurred forward by a feeling that has finally found a name. 

***

They make it to the third of twelve stairs. 

Unable to bear the wait any longer, their bodies and hands and mouths crash together all at once. Sherlock’s lips are on John’s, and John cradles his head in his hands, and they continue their clumsy ascent to the top of the staircase. Sherlock’s fingers scrabble over the buckle of John's belt; John unbuttons Sherlock's coat, sliding it off his shoulders and onto the ground.

Sherlock kisses with unrestrained enthusiasm—as if he's never been kissed before, as though the joy is something he thought he might never know. And John wonders if he has ever truly been kissed himself—because nothing has ever come close to the taste of Sherlock’s lips. Richer than merlot. Sweeter than moscato. 

The door comes sooner than they expect. Sherlock's back collides with it, but he doesn't allow it any interruption—continuing to sweep his tongue in irregular circles over John's. John pins him in place, holding to the door frame with one hand as he fumbles with the keys in the doorknob. 

They barely make it through the door and shut it behind them before Sherlock begins to peel John's wet trousers down from his waist. John works swiftly to catch up, unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, using his body to press Sherlock on closer to whatever their final destination may be—one of their beds? The sofa? Perhaps even a chair?

And that's when his foot becomes stuck in the leg of his trousers. They end the kiss only to break into giddy laughter, grabbing on to each other as they tumble down to their knees.

Apparently, their final destination is the floor. That’s perfectly alright. Although John wants to take his time and savour the moment, he’s not about to waste another second trying to make it to the other room when he could spend that second making love to Sherlock. 

Besides, both of them are brimming with the urgency of pining for far too long. So with the same lack of grace they've displayed thus far, they wrestle and tug at one another’s clothing until they’re both completely naked.

John kisses Sherlock tenderly on the crown of his head and asks him to lie on his back. Sherlock complies, his eyelids falling closed as he bites his lip in anticipation.

John wraps his arms beneath Sherlock's thighs to spread them open, and he uses his tongue and his fingers to open him up. Sherlock gasps and digs his fingernails into the rug to keep himself grounded, his body rolling and twisting with the rhythm John's tongue creates. John thrusts Sherlock's legs open wider, buries his face deeper and deeper, and the sounds coming from Sherlock's mouth are nearly feral. 

Once they're both ready, he takes Sherlock by the hips and helps him into his lap. Sherlock wraps his legs around his waist and straddles him; wraps his arms around his shoulders and continues to kiss him. The kiss is dirty. Messy. Unrestrained.

John grips firmly to Sherlock's hips to guide his body forwards and backwards; Sherlock quickly settles in to the motion, and they work in unison to slide their lengths together. 

It's Sherlock who rips his lips away first. His forehead is damp with sweat; his mouth is swollen from kisses. His eyes are dark, his expression displays only unbridled affection. 

"Now," he says. 

John kisses Sherlock’s right collarbone, and then the left. "Alright."

Carefully, he lays Sherlock onto his back once more. Sherlock keeps his legs wrapped tightly around his waist, and he whispers into John’s ear that he loves him. John whispers it back as he presses into him inch by inch. 

They make love, right there on the hard floor, and it's sweaty and awkward and beautiful. And they climax so urgently and simultaneously that it almost feels like a single orgasm rather than two. 

Afterwards, they elect to drag themselves up from the floor and into Sherlock's bed. John is the one who decides; he wants to know what Sherlock's satin sheets feel like on his skin. They collapse onto the mattress together, punch drunk and exhilharated by what they've just done.

They talk about everything and nothing until the sun comes up. Sherlock refuses to sleep, he says, because he doesn’t want this perfect day to end. John kisses him on the shoulder and promises that tomorrow will be even better. 

***

When John wakes up at half past noon, Sherlock is still fast asleep. He rolls over and wraps his arms around him from behind; kisses the back of his neck and tells him good morning.

Sherlock stirs lightly. “Mmmm,” he grumbles. “Did you check your phone?”

John frowns. "No. I've only just woken up." 

“Check it.” Sherlock yawns and drifts off again. 

John takes a few moments to admire his beauty, but his curiosity soon gets the better of him. He rolls out of bed and heads into the other room to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket. 

He finds an email from Sherlock. He opens it and smiles. 

***  
  
Good morning, John. Or afternoon. Or whatever chunk of time finds you reunited with your phone. I revealed to you earlier that the reasons I love you are infinite. And as I lie awake next to you, some of them came to me. I want to share them with you, but if I tell you now, you probably won’t hear them. Because you’re sleeping.

So I made them into a list. Obviously, this is a very, very small fraction of infinite. Infinity can’t be measured, actually. I’ll presume this is a good place to start.

***

Reasons to Love John Watson

by Sherlock Holmes.

His loyalty

His generosity 

His courage 

He makes delicious Earl Grey. Even better than Mrs. Hudson's. Don't tell her I said that.

Jumper collection

He’s not as much of an idiot as most people 

Even on my worst days—and there are many—he makes me smile without even trying 

I’m a far better human simply by knowing him

He has a profound talent for kissing 

He keeps me grounded when things inside and outside get a bit too loud

Also, it’s adorable that he’s small but fierce and brave and a bit scrappy, sort of like a Pomeranian

(I love dogs. That’s a compliment)

He knows me better than anyone ever has

He taught me what it’s like to feel very loved, even before I knew that he loved me

Did I mention he's a good kisser? Yes

In conclusion: I love John Watson

The end. (For now.)

**Author's Note:**

> This work is gifted to Frannie, whose idea inspired me to write the story!


End file.
